


Burning Wishes

by MariaPriest



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, M/M, New Year's Eve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-12 04:42:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28879677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MariaPriest/pseuds/MariaPriest
Summary: Illya is hoping the Russian tradition of burning wishes at the turn of the new year will prove to be more than a wish.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Comments: 6
Kudos: 31





	Burning Wishes

“Another crisis averted, gentlemen. Good job,” proclaims Alexander Waverly. He studies the partners seated at the round table with him. They are clearly spent, barely able to keep their eyes open, let alone focus. He is surprised they've been able to give a coherent report of their activities. “From the looks of you, I shall assume you are not up for the New Year's Eve party tonight.”

“As much as I'd like to join the party, your assumption is correct, sir,” a tired Napoleon confirms. The mission had them going non-stop for almost two weeks, with little opportunity for anything more than snatches of sleep, rest, and nourishment.

“I am in agreement with Mr. Solo, sir.” Illya struggles to keep his eyelids in the upright position.

“Very good then. You will take an U.N.C.L.E. taxi to your building. I expect you not to darken my door until 10 a.m. the day after tomorrow. With your written reports completed by then, of course.”

“Of course, sir,” replied Solo. “Happy New Year, Mr., ahhh, Waverly.”

“ _S novym godom_ ,” Illya adds. Waverly half-smiles at the fatigued agent's lapse into his native tongue, a telltale sign his reserves have dwindled to near-empty, as well as Solo's apparent difficulty in coming up with his superior's name.

“Now, off with you. I'll have Miss McNabb notify the motor pool that you are on the way.”

“Thank you,” the partners say in unison. Waverly almost sighs aloud at their struggle to stand and walk out the door, shoulder to shoulder in an effort to support their mutual need for assistance to remain perpendicular to the floor.

Once in the corridor, Napoleon says, “Can't believe you wished the Old Man a Happy New Year in Russian.”

“Too spent to make my brain or mouth work in English.”

Napoleon chuckles. “And what's different now?”

“Just caught my fourth wind.”

=^_^=

As they settle into the back seat of the cab, Napoleon says, “How about coming up to my place about 11 tonight? I'll order some food delivered from D'Antonio's. Then we can watch the ball drop on TV and toast the new year with a bottle of Dom Pérignon.”

Illya arches an eyebrow. “Such decadence, Mr. Solo.” He pauses, then says conspiratorially, “I'll be there.”

Despite his exhaustion, Napoleon laughs heartily. “I promise not to report you to the Politburo, Mr. Kuryakin, for your capitalistic indulgences tonight.”

“Good. Then I shall not have to shoot you.”

=^_^=

Illya awakens to the clanging of his alarm clock, rubs his eyes hazy from not enough slumber. He needs more sleep, but wants to ring in the new year with his partner, and want wins over need this time. He hopes thirty minutes is enough time to make coffee, shower, and dress and avoid the temptation to climb back into bed before he is due to join Napoleon.

By the time he finishes dressing—a cobalt blue cashmere V-neck sweater (last year's Christmas gift from his partner and friend) over a black T-shirt, jeans, socks, and house slippers—the coffee has cooled enough that he can drink it without causing third-degree burns. As he sips, he thinks of a New Year's tradition he has not taken part in since he was a child.

He considers that perhaps it is time to perform this little ritual again, to give substance to his deepest desire, and by doing so, free his waking thoughts of its constant presence. Unrealistic, yes; he will always be aware of that longing, never free of it, and gladly. But maybe it could move into a position of less prominence, and less disappointment that the wish will forever remain just that—a wish.

Illya finishes the last of the coffee, rinses out the cup, and leaves it in the sink. Taking a deep breath to fortify himself as he always does before this particular type of encounter—a late-night repast when his defenses are at their weakest—with Napoleon, he tucks his Special in his waistband at the small of his back. He leaves, securing his apartment, and climbs the six flights of stairs to the penthouse.

=^_^=

Luca, the D'Antonio's delivery boy, is just leaving as Illya nears Napoleon's apartment door.

“Hi, Mr. K!” the boy says brightly despite the late hour. “Mr. S has ordered quite the spread. Think it'll be enough for the two of you tonight?” Luca is well aware of Illya's prodigious appetite, which is rearing its famished head at the culinary aromas wafting from the penthouse. The black bread and cheese Illya had twelve hours ago before he collapsed into a deep sleep was a measly deposit on his hunger.

“Hello, Luca. Thank you and your family for working tonight. Otherwise, I'm sure I would have eaten food far inferior to what awaits me now.” Illya's lips twitch into a small, anticipatory smile.

Luca laughs. “Anything for two of our best customers. I'll be sure to tell Nonna. She made the lasagna herself, just for you.”

“I do appreciate her attempts at fattening me up.”

“Hey, partner mine!” Napoleon, dressed in his sedate, satin, paisley-print smoking jacket, a burgundy ascot, loose-fitting black trousers, and burgundy slippers, stands in the doorway. “Food's getting cold and the wine's getting hot.”

Illya nods at Napoleon and turns back to the delivery boy. “Happy New Year, Luca.”

“Happy New Year, Mr. K. And you, too, Mr. S!” he calls back over his shoulder.

Napoleon waves his season's greeting to Luca then gestures for Illya to join him.

Illya hesitates just a fraction of a moment, drinking in the beauty that is Napoleon Solo. For that tiny stretch of time, the hunger in his heart, his _soul_ , outstrips the hunger in his belly. Then that hunger retreats. “We mustn't let that tragedy happen,” he declares with a bit of sarcasm.

<><><>

With effort that doesn't show on his features, Napoleon quells the rise of his sex on seeing Illya in that blue sweater. It makes his eyes impossibly bluer, adds a depth that rivals the sea. _You have it bad, Solo_.

“By all means, no tragedy allowed this holiday. Come in,” he says as he stands aside to let Illya enter, their bodies unselfconsciously brushing against the other; their personal space has long included the other.

Napoleon almost giggles at seeing Illya's eyes widen in food lust at the feast laid out on the dining room table. “Serve yourself. I'll pour the wine.”

Illya wastes no time filling his plate with a generous rectangle of lasagna, endive salad, broccoli spears with lemon, olive oil, and hot pepper flakes, garlic bread, and pimento-stuffed olives. “This is… extraordinary, Napoleon,” he says as he sits down at one of the two place settings. “Thank you.”

Napoleon hands his friend a glass of Chianti. “I ordered enough so we'd have leftovers for tomorrow.” He pauses as he watches Illya gorging himself on the lasagna, somehow telegraphing his delight despite the speed at which he eats. “If there _are_ any leftovers...”

Illya ignores the comment and continues consuming the delicious meal unabated.

Napoleon helps himself to linguine with clams, angel hair pasta primavera, caesar salad, and a few broccoli spears. He sits at the other place setting, across from Illya, that he has set there on purpose. Napoleon admits to enjoying an inordinate amount of entertainment observing the love affair his partner has with food. In fact, he finds his own meal that much more satisfying. They eat to the sounds of Frank Sinatra then Nat King Cole.

Napoleon stops Illya after his third helping of lasagna and says, “Save some room for dessert.”

Illya rolls his eyes. “I _always_ have room for that. Unless it is Jell-O.” He pulls a face.

“Not too worry; I remembered your antipathy to that.” They both have had too much of the processed bones and ligaments of animals masquerading as dessert during their many hospital and infirmary stays. “I have panna cotta, cannoli, and ricotta cheesecake. I thought we'd save the double chocolate biscotti for a late breakfast.”

Illya wipes his mouth on the embroidered cloth dinner napkin while he makes a decision. “I believe I'll start with the cannoli.”

Napoleon shakes his head in amazement. “How about just the cannoli for now and save the rest for after midnight.”

“I suppose that will be acceptable.”

Napoleon grins at the smart-aleck remark, Illya's teasing humor and quick wit being two more attributes that endear the man to him.

“Turn on the TV, would you, _tovarishch_? I'll join you with dessert and coffee in a few minutes.”

<><><>

Illya sits on one end of the sofa, watching the flames in the fireplace as the TV warms up. He surveys the room, noting that holiday decorations are almost non-existent. He is not surprised given their hectic schedule for the last month. The one nod to the season is the candelabra on the mantel that has an array of lighted red candles, each taper long enough to last for hours. On the butler’s table is a magnum of champagne cooling in a silver bucket; next to it are two champagne coupes.

As the television finally shows discernable images, memories of his childhood intrude, though not entirely unwelcome. He misses his family, most of whom have been deceased for years. He misses the music they made together, and the lessons in literature and science by the fireplace, and the special dishes only served on holidays. He misses their traditions, both of family and of culture.

He sighs, then remembers that he has family right here, in the next room. Napoleon Solo, the man who welcomed him without prejudgment to the New York office, became his partner then his best friend and brother-in-arms, and, eventually, the resident at the center of his heart.

_Time to act, Illya. Time to let Napoleon know the fullness of your feelings for him._

The aroma of coffee has eased its way into the air around him and he feels a near arousal knowing he will see Napoleon very soon. Moments later, he looks over his shoulder to see the object of his love and desire, the cause of the heat in his belly and points south, carrying a large silver tray on which there is a matching coffee urn, two Waterford cups and saucers, silver spoons, cloth napkins, a pot of cream, a bowl of sugar cubes, and three cannoli.

Hurriedly, Illya clears the coffee table so Napoleon can set the tray down, which he does with a, “Thanks, IK. Help yourself. In case you haven’t figured it out, two of the cannoli are for you.” He grins what Illya has come to know as a ‘shit-eating’ one, but as always when such a facial expression is directed at him, Napoleon infuses it with affection. He joins Illya on the sofa.

“I always enjoy the return to civilization,” Napoleon says as he spreads a napkin on his leg.

“Indeed.” Illya pours coffee into both cups, then adds two cubes and a generous portion of cream in his. “If I never visit Southeast Asia again, it will be too soon.” Illya shoves half of his first cannoli into his mouth, bites down. His eyes go skyward, his throat emits a sensual moan, exhibiting his pleasure.

Napoleon chuckles. “You know, Illya, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were experiencing an orgasm.”

Illya almost chokes but somehow chews and swallows without incident. _Does he suspect?_ “Ah, Napoleon, you are correct. Orgasm may be defined as intense or unrestrained excitement, including the non-sexual, which, as you know, I frequently have when I eat something truly exquisite, as this cannoli is.” _As I know you would be._

“Then here’s to experiences intense or unrestrained.” Napoleon lifts his cup from its saucer in a toast as he gives Illya his patented roguish smile.

Illya raises his cup and smiles in return. _You are such a flirt, Napoleon. You have no idea what you are doing to me, do you? Or **do** you?_

<><><>

Napoleon takes a punishing swallow of the hot coffee, hoping it will awaken his restraint, which he feels slipping quickly given the ethereal artistry of Illya Kuryakin in firelight and the exhaustion he is barely fending off. He clears his throat as he checks the heirloom clock atop the TV cabinet and discreetly shifts position to hide the growing bulge between his legs.

“Ah! Midnight approaches. I’ll open the champagne, unless you’d like to do the honors.”

Illya shakes his head, mouth once again full of fried pastry dough and sweetened ricotta cheese.

Napoleon gives Illya an indulgent smile, then undertakes the job himself. As he unwraps the foil from the neck of the premium champagne, he hears Illya swallow then watches him lick his lips with his supple tongue. _Oh, if only that tongue were on my lips--and other body parts._

Illya gives him an odd look that Napoleon can’t interpret, which is unusual and unsettling, given how well he can read his partner. He quickly shifts his gaze from Illya to the cork. “Here goes, _tovarishch_.” With expertise born of frequent practice, he carefully thumbs the cork out of the bottle. They both smile at the pleasing _pop!_ and the lack of any wasted wine.

“If only you could shoot as well as you can de-cork a magnum of sparkling wine,” teases Illya.

“I shoot well enough to have saved you numerous times, partner mine,” Napoleon retorts gently. He pours the wine into one of the glasses and hands it to Illya. After he fills his glass, he returns his attention to Illya. “Should we wait until midnight, or sip a little now, just to be sure it’s at the right temperature?”

Illya rolls his eyes. “Sometimes you remind me of a child, Napoleon. Patience is a virtue, especially since the witching hour is only a few minutes away.” He pauses, looking away from Napoleon’s gaze, as if he’s thinking. He looks back at Napoleon. “My friend, I’m hoping you’ll participate in a tradition my family performed every New Year’s Eve.”

“Of course, IK. Anything.” _And if ‘anything’ includes a few dozen passionate kisses that lead to more than kisses, I’m all in._ “What is it?”

Illya takes a deep breath, one that Napoleon recognizes as one he takes before he must do something unpleasant or dangerous. It mystifies Napoleon, initiating mild concern.

“Right before midnight on New Year’s Eve, my family made wishes. Everyone who could write had a piece of paper and a writing tool and a glass filled with a drink. My parents usually had vodka, while my siblings and I”--Napoleon almost loses his attentive look to a surprised one on learning that Illya had brothers and sisters--”had warm goat’s milk, sometimes with chocolate if my father could find any.”

“Goat’s milk, ey? Sounds… tangy.” Napoleon is pleased his observation raises a chuckle from his friend.

“It is delicious.”

“I’m happy to take your word for it. So what did you do with the wishes once they were written down?”

Illya smiles fondly at the memory then says, “In the last minute of the old year, we would set the paper on fire using the flames of the candles and let the ashes fall in our drinks. At the stroke of midnight, everyone would gulp down the milk or vodka with the ashes. If one had anything left after one minute, the wish would not come true.”

Curious, Napoleon asks, “Did the ashes make drinking your beverage… distasteful? I’d hate to spoil the, ah, piquancy of fine champagne.”

Illya laughs heartily, a rare event, which sends warm spikes of desire throughout Napoleon’s body. “I wouldn’t know, my friend, because I always drank my milk very quickly.”

Napoleon nods and grins, picturing a young, skinny Illya chugging his tainted drink that leaves behind a creamy moustache. “So, did you share your wishes?”

Illya shakes his head somewhat vigorously. “No, never. Announcing the wish was another way to keep it from being fulfilled.” He hunches his shoulders briefly. “However, my parents always knew mine.”

“Let me guess,” says Napoleon, unable to hide his smugness. “More food.”

Once more Illya laughs. “You know me so well, Napoleon.”

Napoleon carefully places his coupe on the coffee table. “I better get the paper and a couple of pencils now or we’ll miss the deadline.” He rises from the sofa and heads for the telephone stand where he has the supplies they need.

In the meantime, Illya stands and moves to the fireplace. He has placed their glasses on the mantel on either side of the candelabra.

“I see you’re almost ready to start a little fire of your own, my little arsonist,” needles Napoleon. _As if you haven’t started a fire within me ages ago._

<><><>

_My dearest Napoleon Solo, that fire for you started in me years ago._ “Time is drawing near. Remember the rules, or our wishes won’t come true.”

Illya takes the scrap of paper and the pencil nub Napoleon offers him. “Is it time?” he asks.

Napoleon checks his watch. “11:59 starts…” There is silence for a stretch of interminable time for the increasingly anxious Russian. _Make your wish come true in a few minutes._

“Now!”

Each man places the paper scrap on the palm of his left hand to jot his wish, Illya in Cyrillic, out of tradition, and Napoleon, he assumes, writes in English. They finish within a second of each other. They grab their champagne saucers, then simultaneously light the paper from the center taper.

Once the scraps start to burn, they hold them over their glasses, all the while smiling at each other. Illya thinks he sees a promise of something he wants so desperately in Napoleon’s soft gaze, but he is afraid it’s just a reflection of his wishful thinking, his projection of his own want and not Napoleon’s. He turns his gaze to the flaming paper, watching the ashes fall into the fizzing wine and remembering so much of his early past and gathering the courage to demonstrate his wish to Napoleon.

Before they know it, they hear the start of the countdown from the TV set. “Ten … Nine …” At eight, they join in. At “Happy New Year!” from some unknown host at the Times Square event, they lift their glasses to each other, smile widely, and say, “Happy New Year,” much more staidly than the TV man.

“Bottoms up, Illyushka.” Napoleon’s mouth becomes a seductive, smirk-like smile.

Illya hesitates at the diminutive Napoleon has never used with him nor has Illya asked him to use because of one of its meanings. A diminutive that connotes a special affection, an intimacy between the closest and dearest of friends or between lovers. _Is it the best of friends he means, or lovers?_ Without taking his eyes from Napoleon, he downs his wine and ashes in seconds, fearful he’ll miss the deadline.

Mere seconds later, Napoleon’s glass is empty, well ahead of the end of the first minute of the new year. He glances at his watch. “We made it with more than thirty seconds to spare, my dearest Illya.” It is said with the slightest hint of seduction that is almost hidden in fraternal affection.

Illya feels confused, uncertain now if he should reveal his feelings. _Does Napoleon see me as just a close friend or is he truly making subtle overtures to something more?_

“If your wish is for more food,” Napoleon continues, “the panna cotta awaits you.” His tone has challenge in it.

_Cease this silly procrastination, Kuryakin, and get to it._ “No, I didn’t wish for more food, though that does sound enticing.”

“So, _mon ami_ , is this wish something you can fulfill now?”

This time Illya hears hope. He feels the heat rise from his neck to his cheeks, the butterflies in his stomach fanning that heat throughout his body. “I believe so. May I, uh, _show_ you?”

Napoleon’s eyes widen. “Wouldn’t that be breaking the rules?”

“Yes, verbalizing the wish is most certainly a guarantee that the wish will not be fulfilled. However, there is no prohibition against demonstrating it.” Illya puts his empty glass on the mantel.

“Well, then, best get on with the show,” Napoleon says as he follows suit.

A half-step brings Illya further into the familiar electric aura that habitually surrounds Napoleon. He’s been this close to the man many times, but never with this intention--only its dream.

Illya takes a deep breath, more to dispel his jitters than to fill his lungs. With the lightest touch, he takes Napoleon’s handsome face between his hands. Those deep brown eyes--he now sees they are dilated--say “Yes!” He raises himself a little on his toes while he lengthens his neck and brings Napoleon’s head down until their mouths are right across from each other. Illya moves in until their lips touch.

The touch instantly turns into a deep, passionate kiss, one that tells of starvation and satisfaction at the same time. To Illya’s surprise, Napoleon doesn’t try to dominate but neither is he passive, just fully engaged, knowing when to give and when to take. This exhilarates Illya, and he allows his kissing to become more assertive, more passionate.

Napoleon sighs, sultry and lush, whipping up the flame in Illya to new heights, and opens his mouth when Illya requests entrance--boldly for him--by sweeping his tongue along Napoleon’s supple lips. Within a second, that tempting mouth is open and Napoleon’s tongue answers with a flirt across his lips, like a bee tasting which flower to alight upon.

Illya takes the gesture as permission to invade his mouth, which he does. Napoleon moans sensuously at the entry and uses his own tongue to caress Illya’s.

Suddenly, Illya has the overwhelming need to embrace Napoleon, pull him close so he can feel Illya’s hardness.

Before he can act, one of Napoleon’s hands is at Illya’s mid-back, the other on his trim buttocks. Illya moans as their erections meet. They both shift slightly to their right, just enough until the evidence of their desire is side-by-side.

Suddenly, Napoleon chuckles into Illya’s mouth. As if bitten, Illya backs away, removes his hands from Napoleon’s head, gives the grinning, handsome face the evil eye.

“What’s so funny, Napoleon?” he asks indignantly, his erotic mood vaporizing like a single raindrop on a hot sidewalk.

Napoleon gives him his gentlest, most seductive smile. “Certainly not you, Illyushka, or your kiss. It’s just...“ He pauses, chuckles again.

“It’s just what, Napoleon?” he says with mounting irritation and punctuates it with another step away. Inside, he’s trembling, ashamed, heartbroken. _This is not what Napoleon wished for? How could I have been so foolish --_

The object of his desire interrupts his thoughts. “Please, Illyushka, know that I want this… _us_ more than anything.” Illya tenses when Napoleon wraps his hands around Illya’s arms. “I have for years. It’s just that you brought a _gun_ with you. Were you planning to shoot me if I was stupid enough to reject you?”

<><><>

Napoleon forces himself to stop laughing in any way as he sees his flame’s face show chagrin and a gorgeous blush and his body relax.

“That is one reason why I came armed,” Illya says half teasingly, half seriously.

Napoleon chances a laugh and Illya rewards him with a sly smile. “Always prepared for any contingency, aren’t you, my love.” _It feels so right to finally call him that_. “Now, can we get on with celebrating this new aspect to our, ah, _partnership_? And perhaps consummating it as well?”

Napoleon thinks his knees will give way at the broad smile Illya gives him. “By all means, Napashka.”

They move into each other until their lower bodies are so close together that neither light nor air can pass between them. Napoleon wraps his arms around his new lover’s shoulders and he delights in the feel of Illya’s arms around his waist. Illya has held him that way before, but to assist him after being injured or recovering from a drug. This, he decides, is far superior.

“Is ‘Napashka’ the diminutive for ‘Napoleon’?” he asks.

“There is not one of which I am aware, _kokhana_. I just invented it.”

“And _kokhana_?”

“Ukrainian for ‘beloved.’”

Napoleon thinks of a cat savoring his meal when Illya slowly licks the cleft in Napoleon’s chin then suckles it. “I love you, Napashka,” the cat-man purrs softly.

Napoleon’s breath catches in his throat; his body shivers pleasantly. No one has ever done that and he finds it highly erotic but he’s not sure if it’s because it’s an erogenous zone or because Illya’s doing it. He decides it’s much more the latter than the former.

“And I you, _kokhana_.” He kisses Illya, whose blue eyes look as if they are sparking. “Ah, shall we take this somewhere more… appropriate and comfortable?” he asks in his most seductive voice.

Illya rolls his eyes and says as he backs out of Napoleon’s embrace, “What is this ‘perhaps’? Don’t you realize that restraint is overrated in circumstances such as these?” He grabs one of Napoleon’s forearms, which are still in the air, and pulls him toward the bedroom. “We are supposedly men of action. Shall we prove it?”

Napoleon chortles as he tries not to overrun him. “By all means, Illyushka.”

=^_^=

Illya, sitting naked and cross-legged on Napoleon’s large bed, sighs with delight as he chews the last bite of the cheesecake. “D’Antonio’s baker deserves the Order of Lenin for this masterpiece.”

“Want another slice?” asks Napoleon, who is also nude but lying on his side, head propped up on his hand. Illya senses a slight hesitancy in the question. Napoleon lovingly and suggestively runs the index finger of his free hand over Illya’s lips that he knows is sticky from the cake and his lover’s essence. He moans when Napoleon, who has latched onto Illya’s eyes in that “you’re the most important person in the world” way he rarely exhibits, sucks on that finger.

Not unexpectedly, Illya feels the familiar twitch in his groin. “Two is enough for now.” He places the empty plate and fork on one of the headboard’s shelves. “Two pieces of cheesecake, that is.”

Napoleon gives him a toothy grin so wide that his eyes narrow a bit. “So, my love, what wind are you _up_ to now?” The emphasis clearly indicates a double entendre.

“Don't know. I quit counting after four.”

the end

January 2021

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Suzan for the beta/edit.
> 
> My source for this Russian tradition is https://www.redtedart.com/new-years-eve-traditions-burning-wishes-grandpa-frost-russia/


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